Bridegroom
by Simon920
Summary: Maria and Horatio's wedding night from Horatio's POV. Somewhat graphic, so if you're under age or don't like these things, move along, please


TITLE: Bridegroom

AUTHOR: B

RATING: oh, I don't know...R-17?

DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters; I make no money from them.

SUMMARY: the first night, POV, Horatio

ARCHIVE: surely, if you'd like

FEEDBACK: Of course, that's half the fun...! 

Please note: This is a companion piece to 'Wedding Night'.

Bridegroom

He had been married just that morning, in a little half filled church in Portsmouth.

The spectators had consisted almost entirely of his crew. There were a few of Maria's friends and some people her mother knew. His father wasn't there. He hadn't been told of the ceremony and likely wouldn't have made the journey from Kent had he been so informed. It was of no matter.

Thank God Bush had stood up with him. It should have been Archie, of course, but then Archie was dead and so couldn't attend.

As he had watched Maria come towards him down the aisle, his main thought, as he pasted a pleased looking smile on his face, was that the dress looked quite awful on her. The color was wrong for her complexion, making her look sallow and the style only served to emphasis her short and somewhat plump stature. It had been an unfortunate choice.

His mind wandered to the thought that the idea of an 'unfortunate choice' extended farther than just the matter of fashion. This marriage was a mistake. He knew it the moment the proposal was out of his mouth and being joyously accepted. He knew it as Maria was throwing her arms around his neck in happiness and kissing him that he was likely making the largest mistake of his life.

He could have rescinded the proposal, he could have simply explained that he had changed his mind, that he didn't want to go through with it, that they were unsuited to one another. He could have not shown up at the church this morning, he could have just walked out.

In fact, he did none of these things and, slipping the ring on her finger, had plighted his troth until death they did part.

Now, mind you, it wasn't that he disliked the girl, or that he had other, better irons in the fire. No, that wasn't the case. He liked her enough—well, not enough to marry her, perhaps, but enough to treat her kindly. He liked her enough so that he couldn't hurt her feelings.

He didn't love her, of course, and that was unfortunate because she loved him. Perhaps if he were going to be about Portsmouth more, if they would actually be living together he would have made more effort to love her. The fact was that in three days he would be sailing and would likely not see her again, assuming that he wasn't killed, for months or possibly years. He would keep up the façade for a couple of days. Besides, he wouldn't even be around her all that much before he left, what with having to be busy on the ship.

Then they were walking back down the aisle, Maria clinging to his arm and her face lit with happiness.

He passed through the rest of the morning almost as though he were floating along in some sort of dream. He could recall glimpses of the archway of raised cutlasses and swords that Bush had arranged, moments at the wedding breakfast before he was called away by Admiral Pellew. He could remember that conversation clearly, with professionalism, but then shifted back into his dreamlike memory for the rest of the day. He could picture Pellew proposing the toast to the happy couple, he could remember his new mother-in-law complaining about something or other and he could recall the relief when he opened the note from Bush allowing him to escape back to Hotspur to oversee the loading of some supplies. There was an unreality to the entire affair (he smiled to himself at his unconscious choice of words) that, in a detached way, he found almost interesting.

The proverbial spectator at the feast, which was how he thought of himself.

The supplies loaded and with the sun now setting, Bush had shyly suggested that he might like to got ashore, that everything would be taken care of in his absence, not to worry. Knowing what his Lieutenant was alluding to, Hornblower was momentarily panicked by the prospect of what the evening's conclusion must be for him. He was no virgin after ten years in the Navy—Hell, those three days in Kingston with Bush would have put paid to that, even if nothing else had—but the thought of Maria waiting for him, as he knew she would be, was enough to put anyone off their stride.

He suggested that, perhaps, Bush would do him the pleasure of joining him for dinner and perhaps to raise a glass.

Surprised by the suggestion from a man approaching his wedding night, Bush couldn't very well say anything other than to reply that he would be honored and looked forward to it.

Together they entered the ship's boat, made the short trip to the quay and walked to a local inn known for fare a cut above the usual offerings. Hornblower insisted that the treat was his, in thanks and gratitude for Bush's services earlier that day and, indeed, during the entire last week. The wedding coming just on top of the fitting out of Hotspur made for a hectic few days and Hornblower told his First, and his friend, that he was obligated to the man. Bush took his praise and his thanks with embarrassment. After all, that was his job; to do everything he could to help his Captain, wasn't it? Well, yes, but he hadn't had to agree to act as his supporter at the wedding, and that wouldn't be forgotten.

Hornblower asked the barkeep for another bottle of wine and Bush thought it odd that a man on his way to his new bride would choose to get drunk first.

The whole wedding had surprised Bush, as a matter of fact. He and Hornblower had been in Mrs. Mason's lodging house when they had received notification that they were no longer on half pay and had been requested and required to ready Hotspur to leave. He had both seen and heard Maria's reaction, had discounted the tears even as he knew that the lass had fallen in love with Hornblower. He had even heard his friend proposing to the girl, knowing that would likely be the only thing to stop her crying.

Bush had just shaken his head. He knew that Hornblower didn't love her; anyone with eyes in their head would know that. She was a nice enough girl, not completely stupid, he supposed, but plain as a mud fence and would likely only grow heavier with children. She would never be the asset to his career that Hornblower would have been thought to seek out—a Commodore's daughter, or perhaps some Admiral's niece. He was an ambitious bastard, there was no mistaking that and this seemed an amazing lapse in his usual methodical approach to things.

Well, it was his bed, let him lie in it.

The second bottle finished, the toasts done, Bush did what he could to speed his Captain out the door to his wife. His arms firmly around the taller man's waist to steady him, he led him to Mason's Guesthouse. He quietly helped him in the front door, removed his cloak and hat and, assured that he would be able to find his way to his bride, silently let himself out and back to the ship. The cool night air and the walk seemed to have cleared his head somewhat and Hornblower should be all right on his own.

When Hornblower climbed the stairs and let himself into Maria's room, he noticed that a candle still burned for him, the fire had died down and she was sitting up waiting for him in a padded rocking chair, sound asleep.

He took a minute to study her as she dozed before him. She was not a beauty, but she was pleasant enough looking, if plain. Her figure could only be termed plump and she would likely become fat at some point. Although literate and relatively well educated for a woman, she was nowhere near his match intellectually and he knew that she would never fully understand the man she had married.

He wondered why she loved him. She must know, to some degree, that her feelings weren't returned. She knew that he would usually be away, that they would have almost no life together. He had little to offer her beside his name. God knew he had no money. He supposed that she would make a life with their children, should they have any, and being married would be a better life for her than being a spinster, though under the circumstances, the difference seemed small to him.

So why did she love him, as he had no doubt that she did? She seemed to like his looks, which he always though grotesque, she liked that he was an officer and that somehow made her feel more important. She liked that he went exotic places and would come back with stories of adventure—at least the ones he would tell her.

In the end he decided that she likely loved him because he was probably her last chance. He was the only game in town for her.

Fine, so be it. She was kind to him and would be loyal and loving when he was with her. They would each live their own lives and, now and then, come together briefly.

He could accept that.

He removed his shoes and his stockings, placed another few logs on the fire and turned back to find her eyes on him.

"I'm sorry that I'm so late, dearest, am I forgiven?"

She stood to meet him. "Always."

When he kissed her, she could taste the wine. He tried to untie the ribbons on her nightgown and fumbled with them. She knew that he had gotten drunk and was hurt that he had been drinking instead of with her, but immediately forgave him. He was a man and he was leaving so very soon. She wasn't the only one who wanted him.

He was becoming frustrated with the ties when her hands gently brushed his away as Maria opened them herself. He felt her undo his cravat and his waistcoat. He noticed that his coat was gone and was relieved to see it on the chair, not remembering it being removed. He was naked, not knowing how, but not concerned. She must have done it. His prick was hitting her in the stomach and he thought that perhaps he should apologize. It seemed terribly rude to do that. She just smiled at him, though, and he lifted her nightgown over her head, dropping it on the floor.

He thought that he should do something gallant, so he bent enough to slip his arms around her and lift her to the bed. She was heavy and he hoped that she didn't notice that he had to strain to do so.

He lay beside her, on his side, his hand kneading one of her soft breasts. Smiling at her, he bent his head to take the nipple of the other one in his mouth, suckling it carefully. His penis was resting on her thighs, leaving a wet trail as he moved and he felt her hand shyly grasp him. Even through the alcohol, it felt exquisite and he had to restrain himself from coming in her hand. He hadn't been with a woman in too long and he knew he had to be kind to Maria. It was probably her first time. She had told him that it was, and she was likely telling him the truth, not that he cared.

She shifted her hand, intentionally or not, moving his foreskin and he heard himself groan. Jesus that felt good. He moved his head up to hers, kissing her, opening her mouth with his tongue, gently gliding inside of her lips and rubbing against her tongue with his own. He was absurdly pleased when she seemed to like that.

Continuing his kisses, he trailed his hand down her soft belly to where the course hairs started and felt her squirm as he began rubbing her mound, his fingers sliding down to her slit and into her warmth. He had always felt odd about doing this to a woman. Somehow it had seems so—what?—it always made him feel like he was forcing the woman to be so open, so exposed, whether she wanted to be or not. No one had ever complained, mind you, but it still seemed to him to be an invasion. Well, there was nothing for it. That was what sex was, when you stopped to think about it.

Sometimes he wondered why sex had never been all that important to him. Oh he liked it as well as any man, Lord knows it felt good, but it wasn't something he couldn't put out of his mind when need be. Not like the other men on the ships, it seemed that was all they ever talked or thought about.

He came back to the present when he heard Maria beginning to make sounds. Evidently he had found her center, judging from the way she was moving about. Her hand was still rubbing his cock and he judged that it was about time to move things along. She murmured something to him that he couldn't quite make out, but she seemed as ready as she would likely be. With an apology for any pain he might cause her, he moved above her, pushed her legs apart, placed himself at her entrance and began carefully pressing.

She was wet and slick and he truly did try not to hurt her, moving slowly and as gently as he could, but he was closer than he had thought and he wasn't going to be able to control things much longer. He was deeper in her when he felt himself reach the barrier. So, she really was a virgin. He pushed a bit harder, really not wanting to hurt her, but needing to be deeper, needing to come soon. Her hands were on his arse and he felt himself being pulled roughly inside of her. The flesh inside of her gave way, he felt what was likely the flow of a bit of blood and he was balls deep.

He began moving in earnest now, getting closer by the second. He knew she had felt pain, but was beyond caring. Pushing against her, pulling and pressing, her hands on his back, her nails scratching his shoulders, he could feel that it would just be moments before he finished.

His back arched, his muscles clenched and his hips slammed into hers. The spasms rocked through him and he could feel the pulsing, the throbbing and the added wetness of his spend between them. Collapsed on her, his breath coming in gasps, he finally managed to regain enough of his mind to ask if she was all right, to say he hoped it hadn't hurt too much.

The gratitude in her reply almost broke his heart.

Carefully pulling free from her, shifting his body off of hers and lying beside her, his hand on her belly, he kissed her gently. Thanking her, making sure she was all right, that there wasn't too much blood, he gave in to sleep.

Twice that night he woke again, each time taking her. If she minded being woken, she didn't admit it. If she were too sore to have him again, she wouldn't let on.

The next morning, eating the breakfast that Maria's mother had actually, to their surprise, served them in bed, he had looked at his wife and regarded her kindly.

He wouldn't love her, in fact he didn't think it possible that he would ever love Maria, but he would only be back now and then.

He knew that his true wife, his real lover and mistress was the sea.

This would be enough for him.

10/10/02

7


End file.
